Silence. Furtive looks, one to another.
“You mentioned the Quaatar?” Mar-agern murmured, staring at Margaret. “What was it we learned about the Quaatar, Margaret?”
Margaret rubbed her forehead, thinking. “They believe themselves and their language to be sacred. They consider it blasphemy for any non-Quaatar to speak their language. Also, all other races are considered to be food sources.”
M’urgi asked, “Who would be doing the actually ghyrm-dropping? Themselves, or would they hire someone?”
Mr. Weathereye said, “There’s no way of knowing who they plan to do the actual task of pushing the things out of the ships, but my guess is that most high-ranking Quaatar, Frossians, and K’Famir will want to see it.”
“Yes, my friends and I thought that likely,” I said. “Torturers like to watch; it’s no fun if they can’t see and hear what’s happening.”
“We know where they make the ghyrm,” said Ella May. “On Cantardene. Should we ask the armorers to get one of the big machines onto Cantardene? And on Earth, just in case? And on every colony planet?”
“The big machines are later,” I said. “I’m talking about now. Within the next few days, right, Weathereye?”
“They have to go to Cantardene, load, and return here. Within the next three or four days, yes.”
A silence fell, broken by Falija, who yawned widely, licked her fangs, and said, “If the trick is to get all the high-ups on board, you’ll need to insult them.”
The tribesmen started, stared at Falija, then shouted, some of them half standing.
“Sit down,” barked M’urgi. “Ah say dis is good luck. You heah? Dis is voice of good luck. You heah me!”
“What do you mean, insult them?” asked Margaret, when the tribesmen had subsided into sulky, shoulder-humped silence.
“Say something nasty to them in their own language,” said Falija. “Margaret is right. It’s blasphemy for another race to use the sacred Quaatar language; the K’Famir have a ritual language as well; and Mar-agern says she suffered the penalty for speaking Frossian to a Frossian. Insult them in their own languages. It will make them very, very angry.”
“She’s right,” cried Mar-agern. “Remember, Margaret, we studied Quaatar! I—we were almost the only ones who did, but we learned to read it and speak it!”
“I remember,” said M’urgi. “Though it seems another life ago. What do we say to them, and how? Does anyone even know where they may be found?”
“On their home planets,” offered Ella May.
“Too far, tactically impossible,” I said.
No one said anything. I ground my teeth and told myself to be patient. “Think about it. We’ll come back to it very soon.”
Mar-agern turned to M’urgi. “There’s a real mob outside.”
M’urgi nodded, tiredly. “One tribe came, two others followed, four followed them. It turned into a horde. They’re still arriving. Every group has one or two ghyrm-eaten ones. I’ve been killing ghyrm for days, but I had only one knife…”
“Open the packs,” Ferni said. “There are a hundred knives. Give the knives to whoever can best use them.”
“Everyone’s getting off the subject,” Margaret complained loudly. “What blasphemous message could we impart? Falija? Weathereye?”
Mr. Weathereye pursed his lips. “It doesn’t need to be subtle. Something along the lines of ‘The holy Quaatar people are a crock of shit’ would probably do.”
Margaret made a face. “I don’t remember learning a word for excrement…”
Falija said, “Umfa!, with a click at the end. That’s the Quaatar word for shit. It was in my mother-mind. Gentherans use it all the time, whenever they’re talking about the Quaatar.”
“While you’re deciding that, I’ll distribute those knives,” said M’urgi, rising and leaving the tent. The tribesmen followed her, and Ferni followed them. I watched through the tent opening as the sheathed knives were distributed, carefully, with many warnings.
Ella May came over to me, saying, “It’s possible the Quaatar have some kind of sensors planted here. If not them, then one of the others in the cabal. They’ve been looking for Margarets. They might have some kind of spy eye around nearby, something they would pick up an insult through…”
I turned, alerted by this new possibility. “There’s detection gear in the red pack. Use it if you like.”
“We two can work on the message,” said Mar-agern to Margaret.
“Short, simple, and insulting,” said Falija.
“I don’t know any way to be useful,” Gloriana whispered to Bamber Joy. “Do you?”
“Sure,” he grinned. “Keep out of the way, don’t whine, and be available if anyone needs a hand. I think we might also eat something, because breakfast was skimpy this morning, and we’re growing…people.”
Gloriana retrieved her pack from outside, and retreated with Falija and Bamber John to a back corner of the tent, where they made themselves comfortable on folded blankets while eating food they’d brought from Thairy. Nearby, Margaret and Mar-agern scribbled and crossed out and once, surprisingly, giggled.
“The blankets smell like hay,” Gloriana said half sleepily. “Like the Howkel kitchen. It would be really nice to be finished with this and not have to worry if there’s anything you didn’t do or haven’t done right.”
“I think we’re all going to be finished very soon,” Bamber Joy said. “It feels like everything is coming to a close. It’s a kind of sad, autumny feel, like when the last leaves come down, and you know that’s it. No more life until spring.”
Gloriana started to say something, then caught herself. I knew she had been wondering if spring would come, this time, even though all three of them sounded quite relaxed and sleepy about the whole thing. They were young. They hadn’t had that many hard times, but I wasn’t at all sure we were ready for the storm that was coming. There were too many ifs: if the machine worked; if the Quaatar people got angry enough; if they dropped the ghyrm only here instead of all over the planet; if the Siblinghood really got the big machines to them in time…
Margaret came over and sat down beside me. “Naumi,” she said.
